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“The more you hurt, the better the song.”
~ Loretta Lynn

I’m of the mind that no matter what personal tragedy or injustice you endure–be it being on the receiving end of finding that last sliver of toilet paper on the roll, to stubbing your ‘little piggy’ toe, to something even more serious like suffering the loss of a loved one–there is always a built-in learning lesson waiting for you on the other side. 

Something that makes you a stronger person; a better writer; a more well-rounded human being. Metaphorically speaking, not physically. 

Dammit … Now that I’ve thought of being physically more well-rounded, I can’t help but hear Meghan Trainor’s, ALL ABOUT THAT BASS in my head!

“Yeah, it’s pretty clear, I ain’t no size two
But I can shake it, shake it, like I’m supposed to do
‘Cause I got that boom boom that all the boys chase
And all the right junk in all the right places”

Where was I?

Right, if you let the aforementioned tragedies or injustices, they can be amazing teachers … and your writing can become richer as a result.

This is something I *used to* believe to my core.

About everything, no matter how bad.

Unless, of course, you just got back hard-to-hear coverage on a script you’ve spent the past 18 months working on.

Then, apparently, all bets are off.

I recently completed my 1-hour episodic dramatic comedy pilot about the enigmatic cryptocurrency industry, and the stranger-than-fiction characters that inhabit it, called TOKEN IDIOTS.

I had gotten some initial good feedback from my inner-circle of screenwriters.

I felt confident enough to start a two-week marketing push, peppering my network of producers with Query Letters. I did this in tandem with sending the Pilot Script and Bible out for coverage.

Nearly 60 Script Requests later, I got the coverage back.

All eight excruciating pages of it.

This is the part where all I wanted to do is curl up in the fetal position at the bottom of my shower and wash the painful failure off of my physically well-rounded self (boom, callback!).

Anyhow, it hurt.

Bad.

I panicked that I blew it with all the producers I sent my ‘dog shit’ script and feared they’d recognize me for the hack-writer I always knew I was destined to be.

And just like that, overnight, the guy looking back at me in the mirror became the worst and most persistent bully in the world. That sumbitch didn’t seem to ever take a break and only slept when I did. He had my audience every waking moment of my life. 

In short … he was a dick. 

And he put me into a serious funk . So I stopped writing.

The really messed up thing was, this self-induced funk and the writer’s block was still going on irregardless of the fact that producers started to compliment the project and set up meetings with me.

None of that amazing stuff mattered because I let it get overshadowed by one person’s critique of my work that didn’t align 100% with my ego’s expectations. 

(Sidebar, it stands to mention that a lot of the coverage was actually spot on, and my rewrite will hopefully be stronger because of it).

Then, this week I had an epiphany.

My youngest son Finnegan (5) fell off of his bike, skinned his knee, and began crying.

Fearing he’d be traumatized like his older sister Lily (10) who was nearly hit by a car* at five years old, and never wanted to ride a bike again, my instincts kicked on.

I consoled him until the crying subsided. Then I put him right back on his bike.

Why?

Because that’s what heroes do.

(Kidding). 

I did it because, as the old adage says, “You have to get back on the horse that threw you.”

Otherwise, it becomes bigger than you. It takes up residence in the wrong column in your brain. It becomes a hindrance, a point of failure, and you put up barriers around it to protect it until it becomes Gospel. 

But if you just mount that pony again and show it who’s boss (admittedly, that sounded more sexual and aggressive than anticipated), it will instead become a useful experience and a teacher.

As I watched him ride his steel horse around the bend, the moment landed for me like a ton of bricks.

“Shit, I need to eat my own dog food!” 

I realized there was a lesson in what I just taught my son … and then I realized there was a lesson waiting for me at the other end of my rewrite.

So today, I begin my rewrite.

Today, I will learn.

Today, I will grow.

Today, I will become a better writer.

No matter how painful.

* When I say my daughter was nearly hit by a car, I think it makes sense to give you the whole story. She was five years old and riding her cute princess bike with training wheels and I was walking with her. 

A van backed out of its driveway heading right for her. 

For a parent, this is that exact moment when life slows down and blurs together all at once. 

I can’t be certain, but I think all of these things happened within a 3-second window:

I yelled for Lily to look out.

I punched the van and yelled at the driver to stop.

Lily jumped off of her bike in a single ninja-like moment, landing safely out of harm’s way, and watched me take the hit as her bike (and my leg) got pinned under the van. 

I got up, ran to the driver’s window fueled by adrenaline and protective-instinct-rage, spewed venomous words from my mouth-hole, and waved my arms around like one of those inflatable windsock puppets in front of a used car lot.

Moments later, I realized that the driver was deaf.

Yeah, she didn’t see or hear any of what just happened with my daughter, her bike, or my leg.

She only saw her crazed neighbor yelling at screaming at her for no reason.

We sorted it out.

And although I had a limp for the next few months, that injury paled in comparison to the guilt I felt for my behavior. (Thanks Italian Catholic upbringing!)

All this to say that I learned two important things from that experience:

• It’s important to get back on that pony and ride

• My daughter would go on to master the art of self-preservation. Not only did she let me take that minivan hit, but if there’s only one mango paleta left in the freezer, she’s gunsta hide it from me.  That’s just how she rolls.